The Avalanche Accord

The fire in the great stone hearth spat and hissed, casting long shadows across the knotty-pine walls of the lodge’s main hall. You’d been here three hours, long enough to memorize the exits, the weight of the silver candlesticks, and the precise, infuriating calm of Julian Croft’s profile as he swirled his whiskey, listening to a man in a tailored suit drone on about shipping lanes.

The deal was supposed to be signed tonight. You’d slipped in as a junior analyst from a rival firm, your forged credentials crisp in your breast pocket, your vendetta burning hotter than the flames. You were three steps from ruining him—one planted document, one whispered doubt in the investor’s ear—when the satellite phone crackled on the table.

The man in the tailored suit went pale. "The market just cratered. Something… coordinated."

Julian’s eyes cut to you, sharp and knowing. "Everyone stays. No one leaves this lodge until I understand what’s happening."

The storm slammed against the windows, and you felt the first cold draft snake under the door. You were trapped—with the man you hated, a dead deal, and the growing certainty that you had just walked into something far larger than revenge.